‘Okay,’ the man said almost cheerfully. The news that Russell had no connection to the authorities seemed something of a relief.
‘I’m looking for an Otto Pappenheim who left a wife and daughter early in the war, most likely through no choice of his own. His wife’s name was Ursel, and they had a daughter name Rosa…’
‘I never had a daughter,’ the man said. ‘And my wife died in a camp. We had no children. Thank God,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Ah. I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s over.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We have to live in the present now.’
‘Of course. But have you ever run across anyone else with the same name?’
‘No. There are such men, I’m sure, but I have never met one.’
Russell could think of nothing else to ask. He thanked the man and walked back towards the front. Passing through the sparsely populated bar, he realised he fancied a drink.
‘What are you paying with?’ was the barman’s first question.
‘What do you take?’
‘What do you have?’
‘US dollars.’
‘They’ll do.’
‘And what else?’ Russell asked as his beer was poured.
‘Pounds. Cigarettes. There’s a list of exchange rates on the wall over there.’
Russell took a first sip and examined the sign. 3 British Woodbines were worth 1 American Pall Mall, and both were listed in their cash dollar equivalents. ‘What about German currency?’ he asked.
The barman laughed and turned away.
Russell found himself a table, sat down, and surveyed the room. The decor was as minimal as the lighting, and no attempt had been made to disguise the myriad cracks in the ceiling. A small dance floor lay between the sea of closely packed tables and a narrow, curtainless stage.
‘John Russell,’ a surprised voice exclaimed beside him.
‘Irma,’ he said, smiling and standing to embrace her. They had met in pre-war days, when she and Effi had been in the same musical. Hardly a highlight of Effi’s career, Barbarossa had marked a real low for Irma Wocz, who had first earned fame as a cabaret artist in pre-Nazi Berlin. She had to be in her mid-forties, but the dark eyes were still challenging, the full mouth still inviting, and the shining brunette hair would have convinced anyone who hadn’t last seen her as a blonde. Her figure, or what Russell could see of it inside the buttoned coat, still had curves to spare. ‘Please, join me,’ he said. ‘Have a drink.’
‘I certainly will,’ she said, sitting down opposite him. ‘But don’t think of paying for it. I work here.’ She raised a hand to get the barman’s attention, and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. ‘Where have you been since the shit hit the fan?’ she asked. ‘Someone showed me your picture in the papers,’ she explained. ‘After your little disagreement with our late lamented leader.’
Russell laughed. ‘We’ve been in England the last few months.’
‘You had the sense to stick with Effi?’
‘Yes, she’s here too. She’s making a movie with some people at the old Reichskulturkammer.’
She took her drink from the barman, and halved it in one gulp. ‘The comrades? That’s a sensible move. Once the Americans get bored and go home, they’ll be running everything.’
‘You think they will? Get bored, I mean.’
Irma shrugged. ‘Once they’ve fucked every girl in Berlin.’
‘You’re singing again?’
‘You could call it that.’ She smiled and emptied her glass. ‘I’m certainly getting too old to fuck for a living. Look, you and Effi should come one evening, for old time’s sake. We’re open every day but Monday. One on the house?’ she asked him, waving her own glass at the barman.
‘No, thanks. I haven’t eaten yet.’
‘Now there’s an overrated pastime. If there’s one thing we can thank the Fuhrer for, it’s teaching us how to live with hunger. Ah,’ she added, looking Russell’s shoulder, ‘here comes the boss.’
He turned to see a man walking towards them.
‘Good evening, Herr Geruschke,’ she said in greeting. He was around Russell’s age, the short side of medium height, with dark eyes and thick charcoal-coloured hair that was beginning to recede. He was smartly dressed in a dark grey suit, stiff-collared shirt, jazzy tie and shining brogues.
The smile, Russell noticed, did not extend to the eyes.
‘Irma,’ he said with the slightest of bows. He watched the barman replace her empty glass with a full one, and looked enquiringly at Russell.
‘This is an old friend,’ she explained. ‘John Russell. He lived in Berlin before the war.’
‘Are you English?’ Geruschke asked with a smile.
‘I am,’ Russell said. It was simpler than explaining his official pedigree as an American.
‘We have many English customers,’ Geruschke said. ‘But few are here by choice. In Berlin, that is.’
‘I’m just here for a visit,’ Russell told him. ‘Seeing old friends, that sort of thing.’ Something about the man gave him the creeps.
‘His girlfriend’s Effi Koenen,’ Irma volunteered. ‘She’s here to make a movie for the comrades.’
‘An actress? I haven’t heard the name, but then I never go to films.’ He turned back to Irma, whose second glass was almost empty. ‘Try not to get drunk before you perform,’ he told her sharply. ‘Herr Russell,’ he added, taking his leave with a slight nod and the faintest clicking of heels. As he walked away Russell found himself wondering what the man had been doing for the last twelve years. A question you could ask of any prosperous survivor.
‘He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?’ Irma muttered. ‘But he pays well.’
‘What’s his first name?’
‘Rudolf, but I’ve never heard anyone use it.’
The club was slowly filling up. Three British soldiers had just come in with four young girls, and a good- natured dispute about exchange rates was underway at the bar. On the stage a musician had removed his shining saxophone from its case, and was busy replacing its reed.
‘Do you know Otto Pappenheim?’ Russell asked Irma.
‘The accountant?’ I know him well enough to ignore him.’
Russell laughed. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Oh nothing, I suppose. He’s one of Geruschke’s Jews. He says he likes to help them get back on their feet, which is fair enough. He could be a bit choosier, though. I mean, the Jews have their quota of low-lifes, just like everyone else. And in my experience, being persecuted rarely turns people into saints. Turns them into shits as often as not.’
‘You could be right,’ Russell agreed. It was beginning to seem that post-war Berlin — indeed, the whole damn post-war world — was hellbent on meeting his worst expectations.
Back at the house, he found Thomas and Effi sitting on either side of the kitchen table. They both looked less than happy. ‘Has something happened?’ he asked. ‘Is Leon all right?’
‘He’s fine,’ Effi said, raising a smile.
‘We’ve just had what passes for a normal day in Berlin,’ Thomas said wryly. ‘The Russians have been obstructing me, and the Americans have been obstructing Effi.’
‘How so?’
Effi told him what Kuhnert had told her.
‘What’s it do with the Americans?’ Russell wanted to know.
‘Who knows? But anyway, Kuhnert thinks he can sort it out. It’s just left a sour taste, that’s all.’
‘I’m not surprised, after all you went through. It must be really upsetting.’
‘It is,’ Effi agreed. But not just for those reasons, she thought. Part of her dismay came from recognising the grain of truth in the accusations against her. She had played the storm trooper’s widow. She had played the proud Nazi mother.
Russell put an arm around her shoulder. ‘And what have the Russians been doing to you?’ he asked
